Damaged Goods (27 page)

He rinsed his razor in the sink, tapping the water out of the blades and toweling the moisture from his face. His mind felt sharp and clear today. He glanced around the bathroom, naming objects in his head: soap, mirror, sink, cologne, bath mat.
Bath mat
. He wouldn’t have remembered that one a day ago.

On his way out, he bent over Silvie and kissed her cheek. She woke and stared up at him, looking bewildered.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’m heading to work.”

“Can I borrow your truck?”

“I’ll leave the keys on the counter.”

“I need to get some new shoes for work.” She smiled at him, and he melted inside.

“Go back to sleep,” he said again. “It’s still early.”

Downstairs, he paused in front of the bookcase. This one was in better condition than the one at the sale barn; he kept only the very best for himself. He rummaged through his desk in the corner of the kitchen and wrote a check to Mary Ellis for a thousand dollars. He slipped it into his shirt pocket. He’d look up the paperwork and mail it when he got to work.

He found the place locked, no sign of Carl. Where had the man disappeared to? Something about his absence felt very wrong, and Hershel went inside with a sense of loss riding him. Stuart had agreed to work today, predicting that they’d seen the last of Carl Abernathy. He guessed the man had drifted on to a new place, but Hershel knew better.

In his office, Hershel looked up Carl’s hire date and stared at the year in disbelief. The man had been in his employ for a decade. How could he have underestimated the man’s commitment to him—to his business. Why? Hershel picked up the phone and called the police.

“I think I should report a missing person,” he said.

The woman on the other end asked a series of questions in a rapid-fire manner that left Hershel fumbling for answers, but mostly admitting that he didn’t know. Finally he explained that Carl had been a reliable, longtime employee who hadn’t been seen in three days.

“Could he have just gone out of town?” the woman wanted to know.

Hershel supposed he could have. It didn’t sound like much when he listened to himself try to explain his concern. But there
was more to it, and he hoped it was nothing to do with some past transaction—something he was unknowingly responsible for.

“Can’t someone just check into it?” he finally asked.

She agreed to file a report and took down Hershel’s information.

After a few minutes, he picked up the phone and dialed a new number. It rang several times.

“Hello?”

Hershel’s mouth went dry. “Mom?”

She hung up.

He listened to the dial tone, then gently set the phone down.

Kyrellis trimmed the rosebushes on his patio, deadheading the spent blossoms and carefully picking up the clippings. He would show his prized flowers to Silvie when she arrived, take her on a tour of his garden and greenhouses. He wondered if he should cut her a bouquet. She couldn’t, of course, take it with her and risk questions from Hershel. Besides, he didn’t like to part with such perfection. It was a fault he knew he must overcome if he was going to make this business profitable again. He’d become more collector than grower, obsessing about the new hybrids to the point of not returning phone calls from his customers about the varieties that had built the establishment. He’d nearly run this nursery, which he could scarcely afford when it was operating in the black, into the ground.

It was at Swift’s auction that everything started to unravel for Kyrellis. The auction had seen a different type of clientele in the past year or so. Gangs, mostly, looking for guns. It had made them all uncomfortable. Not just the way these newcomers strutted around as if they owned the place, but their brazenness. The gun
trading had been successful, in Kyrellis’s opinion, because it was discreet.

One cozied up to Kyrellis, claiming he was eager to invest in hybrid flowers. Kyrellis wasn’t stupid. He knew that his rose business was simply an opportunity to convert drug and gun money into something more legitimate. All he got in exchange for the loan was a first name and a post-office box in North Portland, where he was to send his payments.

But orders had continued their steady decline, despite the infusion of cash, and now there were only a handful of retail stores that still considered Kyrellis their primary supplier. The situation had caused his blood pressure to skyrocket. He admitted, as he trimmed the bushes, that he simply didn’t know how to turn things around. He hated the sales aspect.

His doorbell rang, and he paused. It was early. He smiled to himself; she was anxious.

Kyrellis smoothed his hair back on his way to the door, glad that he’d been up early and showered. It was good that she’d come at this hour. He liked a freshly scrubbed girl and had planned on suggesting a bath first.

He opened the door, unable to hide his smile.

“Victor Kyrellis,” said the man standing on the porch.

Kyrellis searched the visitor’s face for recognition. He was tall, but the overriding trait was that he was solid. He wore a light cotton pullover that tightly contoured his pronounced muscles. He held his arms at his sides and his shoulders taut, in a hypervigilant manner. He flashed a smile, though not a friendly one and, against his black skin, the man’s teeth seemed dazzling white. A rhinestone was embedded in his front tooth. Kyrellis couldn’t see the gun, but he knew the man carried one.

“Do I know you?” Kyrellis asked.

“No, but you know the man I work for.” He twisted a ragged white rose between his fingers, torn violently from the bush Kyrellis had set on the front porch that very morning for Silvie. The gray
Oregon winter could be so depressing. He’d thought the flowers would guide her to him.

Kyrellis’s gut twisted. “I’ll have the money within the month.”

“Why don’t you invite me in?”

“No, I don’t think I will.” The two eyed each other, and Kyrellis wished he had taken the same precaution this time that he had with Carl Abernathy. But his guns were in the cabinet, except for the single handgun he kept on the table next to his bed. “I have a line on a large sum. A month. Just give me a month.”

“And what happens in a month if you don’t have the money, Victor?”

“I will,” he asserted. “It’s just been a little dry this fall. But, like I said, I have a line.”

“You said that the last time. Wasn’t this note due a month ago?”

“I … no, I didn’t say that. I didn’t have a line on anything then. It was just hard luck. But things have changed. I just need a little time.”

“Maybe. But he’d like some collateral this time. Just in case.”

“Like what?”

“Well, how about we take a look at that gun collection.”

“Oh, come on. Not that.”

The man stared balefully at Kyrellis. “It could be much worse, and I think you know that.”

“Please. Just a month.”

“Even if I agree, I still need collateral.”

Kyrellis closed his eyes. His guns were second only to his roses. He stood aside to let the man in.

“Wait here,” he said in the living room. “I’ll bring them out.” He left the man and went to a small bedroom off the hallway, cursing under his breath. The room was lined on three walls with glass cabinets that showcased his numerous and rare specimens. Every time he came in here, though, he was reminded that he’d sold the very best gun that had ever passed through his hands: Albert Darling’s Winchester rifle. The money was more important at the
time, and for once he’d kept a cool head and sold it. But he never forgave himself for being in a situation where he had to let it go. And now … he would never again see whatever gun—or, worse,
guns
—he handed over today. This wasn’t so much collateral as interest, and he knew it.

Kyrellis selected carefully, making sure the gun he chose was something he had a chance of replacing. A Smith shotgun, Eagle Grade, in fair condition. Not too rare. Not too expensive. But when he presented it to the man in his living room the man examined it carefully, set it on the coffee table, and asked what else he had. They repeated the ritual until there were five guns of graduating rarity and value, from the Smith to a Hammond Grant military automatic pistol in pristine condition, laid out between them.

“I’ll take them all,” the man announced, and stood to collect them.

Kyrellis wasn’t surprised, and he watched with a sinking heart as the man went to his car and returned with a long blue duffel bag and began to seal them away. As the last gun disappeared from sight, a black pickup pulled into the driveway. They both peered out. Kyrellis realized it was Silvie.

“Expecting someone?” the man said.

Kyrellis didn’t answer. He watched as she sat in the truck. Certainly she’d seen them both. Then she slowly backed out, turned around, and left.

“Guess it wasn’t too important,” the man said, returning to his task.

Kyrellis wanted to take up one of the guns he’d just handed over and shoot the man dead. His arrogance. The way he strutted around as if he were the man with the bucks. If he were half the gun expert he fancied himself, he would understand that Kyrellis had much better guns in his collection. Some worth up to thirty thousand dollars. This dolt was a fool to imagine he had any value to the one who had sent him.

“What’s your name?” Kyrellis asked.

The man slid the duffel over his shoulder and stared at Kyrellis. He stepped closer and riveted his fist into Kyrellis’s soft belly, doubling him over, making his mind go absolutely white. Kyrellis fell to his knees and fought for breath, dull pain blossoming through his center. He was sure he would vomit.

“I’ll be back for the money in two weeks,” the man said calmly. “Did you hear me, Victor?
Two weeks.
”

At the auction barn, Hershel and Stuart spent the morning loading out sold merchandise to waiting pickup trucks, scrutinizing receipts, and marking items
COLLECTED
.

“Check those out,” Stuart said, whistling to himself. He’d been commenting on the female customers’ anatomy for the past few hours, but Hershel ignored him. “C’mon, boss, you couldn’t have hit your head that hard—not to notice
those.
”

“Just bring up the next load, will you, Stuart.”

“Guess you’re not interested since that new piece showed up, huh?” Stuart started back into the warehouse, but Hershel, in two quick steps, blocked his path. Stuart laughed tensely, stepping left and then right, trying to get around Hershel.

“I’m not just after her for some pussy.”

Stuart stood back and looked at the ground. “Sorry, boss. Didn’t mean nothing by it. You’re just different now.”

“I know it. Not a goddamn second goes by that I don’t know I’m different.” Hershel moved aside and let Stuart pass. Why the hell was he telling this man anything? Why can’t a man be different?

There was a lull in traffic, and the place fell momentarily quiet. Hershel looked around at the items yet to be collected. Wednesday was old business, nothing fresh or interesting. He was forced to keep regular hours on this day because people had to arrange for transportation and help moving things. But it had all been sold, he’d collected the money, and this was just a day of cleanup.

“You can go,” he said to Stuart. “I can manage the rest.”

“No, I’ll stay another hour or two. If you don’t mind.” He glanced at Hershel for permission. “Cost of gas these days is killing me. Almost not worth driving out here if I don’t get in at least six hours.”

“Fine with me.” Hershel tried to conjure up where Stuart lived. He drew a blank, then wondered if it was an unknown or a forgotten. He must have known at some point. He realized that he was staring at Stuart as he puzzled it out, and walked away, heading for the concession stand to get a soda.

A middle-aged Mexican woman peered in through the open door, looking out of place and unsure. “Hello?” she called.

“C’mon in,” he hollered. “Can I help you?”

As she neared, he recognized her as the woman from the migrant camp.

“My name is Yolanda,” she said, holding up the business card he’d given her. “I met you before? You came to my house?”